Some Things Never Change
by RosemaerieThyme
Summary: While visiting her family's ancestral home for Christmas, long-time Holmes fan Shirley Ingham stumbles upon an ominous mystery of her own.
1. Chapter 1

"Rejected?"  
I stared at the marked-up paper in dismay, trying not to believe the all-too-conclusive evidence. I was sitting in my tiny cell of an office with Christmas music on full-blast, trying to finish up the final grades for my graduate teaching class. Last week, I had completed a rough outline for the thesis I was supposed to write, and had sent it up to the head of the English department for approval, only to have it returned with disdain. I sighed deeply, switched the carols off, and read again the brief note, scrawled in red ink with the terrible handwriting that is, for some reason, shared by all professors since the beginning of time, or at least professorship.

Miss Ingham,  
Your research looks promising and you have a good command of language, but your topic is too whimsical and far-fetched. May I remind you that Crosby University is a respected institution and not a child's entertainment center. Please submit a heavily revised version of your topic at the beginning of next semester.  
Sincerely,  
Dr. Phillips

I leaved through the pages of my outline, looking over the "whimsical" ideas that for the past several months had been burning in my mind with all the vivid palpability of genuine fact. Perhaps there really were some things for which was the world was not yet prepared…  
My train of thought was broken by a loud knock on my office door. My eyes flew to the little clock on the corner of my computer screen. 2:03 p.m., I thought. Of course. Office hours. "Come in!" I called, stacking up the papers scattered on my desk and hurriedly wiping away the tears that were trembling ominously on my lashes. The door opened to reveal one Chad Summers, a freshman in the British Literature class I was teaching this semester.  
"Chad! Hello!" I greeted him. "What can I do for you?"  
He entered the office with an obvious air of feeling out-of-place, and sat down in the chair opposite me. "Actually Ms. Ingham, I wanted to talk to you about my grade," he said, looking down at the floor and twisting his baseball cap in his hands.  
"What about it, Chad?" I asked, sipping the kid's-size individual carton of orange juice that was next to my computer. I'm obsessed with orange juice, don't ask me why.  
"Um…I kinda need some extra credit or something," he said, sounding even more displaced, if that were possible. I glanced quickly at the grades I had been entering into the computer. Chad Summers, 34/100. Um, yeah. I remembered now that Chad missed about every other class and, when I asked him once if he had ever read any of Shakespeare's works, he had answered, "Part of Wuthering Heights in 10th grade. Didn't really get it though." Yeeeeah.  
"Well, Chad," I said, hoping I sounded professional, "The last day of class was this Tuesday. I told the class I wouldn't accept any work after that date, and it wouldn't be fair to the rest of them if I let you turn in something now. Besides, you had a chance for extra credit back when we studied Swift. I gave 10 extra points to all the students who wrote an alternate ending to Gulliver's Travels."  
"Yeah, well, reading just isn't my thing. You know." Chad's phone was emitting a beep from his jeans pocket; somebody was texting him.  
I looked again at that 34%. "Chad, I'm sorry, but it's too late now to make up for the rest of the semester. We all make mistakes sometimes (I tried hard not to think about my returned thesis outline) and look, if you re-take this class next semester, drop by my office sometime the first week and I'll give you a few tips that help me when I'm studying literature. I promise you, reading can be fun," I concluded, trying not to sound like somebody on Reading Rainbow.  
"Yeah, I guess," he said in a depressed tone. "Thanks anyways, Ms. Ingham. Would you really mind giving me those tips next semester?"  
"On the contrary," I answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine."  
"Uh…what?"  
I saw that I had quite effectively freaked the poor kid out.  
"My little joke," I said apologetically. "Remember, from The Sign of Four? The seven-percent solution?"  
"Um…" His eyes still hadn't returned from their goggled state.  
"It was the last story we read before class ended, Chad," I told him, struggling to maintain my equanimity. "Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Oh, yeah, that guy," he said, gathering his backpack to leave the office. "Well, have a good Christmas, Ms. Ingham."  
"Thank you, Chad," I answered. "And why not give The Sign of Four a try while you're on break? It really is a fascinating story."  
"Uh, yeah, sure," were my student's parting words.  
I felt the tears threatening again as I slumped back in my office chair with my rejected thesis outline, thinking of Chad and all the other students like him. What was the world coming to?  
My eyes fell upon the title of my thesis. _Fact from Fiction: Making a Case for the Historical Existence of Sherlock Holmes._  
Whimsical, indeed! Well, what could be more far-fetched than that?


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks were for me, as the Christmas season so often is, the best of times and the worst of times. On the one hand, it was nice to be finishing up my graduate teaching class, getting Christmas cookies from several professors, and even putting aside momentarily the tragedy of the rejected thesis. On the other hand, though, it was painful to hear my two roommates sharing their excitement about going home to spend time with their families, while my own parents…  
I shoved aside this recurring thought as I packed my thin suitcase and other traveling bags. I reflected instead on another thing that added to the stress of the holiday: one of my roommates had graduated this December and was starting her new job in Prague, and the other was getting married in a month. As a single student in my third year of grad school, I could never afford the apartment rent myself. I knew that at least some portion of my holiday would have to be spent in coming up with a new place to live.  
Fortunately, though, I felt some of these anxious thoughts draining away as my plane to New York City drifted high into the untroubled sky. Reaching for my suitcase, I pulled out a well-worn book with a green cover: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I had to admit that my concern over the thesis was more than just a professional one; I felt connected with my topic on a very personal level. It was amazing that, no matter how many times I read these stories, they never got old. I turned to the seasonally appropriate story, The Blue Carbuncle.

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand.

Oh yes, I thought. The world is not a total loss. Not yet. Not while it is always 1895.

Some hours later, I was frantically locating my luggage while responding to the enthusiastic greetings of my aunt, uncle, and cousin who had come to the airport to meet me. My Uncle Oakes, my father's brother, was an attorney with dark, balding hair and a straightforward manner. His wife, my Aunt Clarice, was a sweet-faced lady who worked as a substitute teacher in an elementary school. Their daughter, Jeanette, had inherited her father's dark hair and her mother's sweet personality, and had just completed her first semester of nursing school. I hadn't seen any of them since summertime, and it was nice, though somewhat bittersweet, to see them again.  
Luggage safely stowed away in the trunk, the four of us were soon on our way to the Ingham family's ancestral home, as I called it, deep in the quiet, cold countryside of upstate New York. Snowflakes capered blithely across the car windows as we enjoyed the beautiful view, Jeanette and I chatting and comparing our respective semesters. I found myself relaxing in her cheerful presence, and before I knew it, the high gables and old-fashioned turrets of my grandparents' house could be seen ahead, cutting sharply into the darkening sky.  
We spent a festive Christmas Eve together, attending a candlelight service in the tiny, old-fashioned village chapel, then returning through the cold air for hot chocolate and cookies in the high-ceilinged kitchen. However, I felt a sort of anticipatory tension in the air, which was soon explained to me by the arrival of my other uncle, Mordred Ingham, who unfortunately was a source of a lot of family contention. Black-haired and pale-faced, he had never married, and was a professor of biochemistry at Columbia University. Although I knew it was foolish, since childhood I had never been easy in my uncle's presence. He was a very silent, solitary person, with bright eyes that could be quite startling in his pale face. And I could never understand why the heck my grandparents had named him after the chief antagonist in the King Arthur legend.  
Snow was falling thickly by the time everyone started retiring to bed. My grandfather was looking anxiously out the window. "Hope the roads don't ice too badly," he said, closing the curtains.  
The power chose this moment to go decidedly and ominously out.  
Jeanette squealed, and I heard Aunt Clarice stumbling around in the dark. I have never been an emotionally demonstrative person, but even I felt a chill at being suddenly plunged into blackness.  
"It's all right, everyone! Don't panic!" came Uncle Oakes' reassuring voice. "Only a little power outage." There was a spluttering sound, and his face appeared, framed by the light of my grandmother's oil-lamp. Fortunately, the country house was equipped with a steady generator, and my two uncles soon got the power up and running again.  
I was grateful for the restored heat as Jeanette and I snuggled into our beds in the upstairs guest room that had always been reserved for the young people of the family. Memories of Jeanette and I staying in this room in happier days flooded my memory as I looked up at the old wooden rafters.  
"This house has such an interesting history," I explained to my cousin as she switched off the light. "You know a lot of it was rebuilt of course. So much of it was destroyed in that fire in 1895." I smiled secretly to myself as I said that date. I'd always thought it was special to have such an important family matter take place in that particular historical period.  
"It is an amazing house," Jeanette agreed. There was silence in the room until she said, with a confidential air, "So, Shirley, have you met anyone special at Crosby University yet?"  
I felt my face go a little pink. "I don't know what you mean, Jeanette," I began.  
"Oh yes, you do," she said, with a friendly teasing air. "Unless you're still in love with Sherlock Holmes, like you used to be."  
"I--what?" I sat straight up in my bed, knowing my face was now a lovely festive shade of red. "Jeanette, you weirdo, I was never in love with--"  
"Oh, come on, Shirley," she said, laughing at my reaction. "Don't be ashamed of it! When I was 10 I had a huge crush on Peter Pevensie from the Chronicles of Narnia."  
"Yes, well," I said, slumping back down onto my pillow. "I am significantly older than 10, my dear."  
"So you admit it," she said.  
"I--no!" I exclaimed. "You're weird, and you're imagining things. Sherlock Holmes is a fascinating character, yes, but he's an imaginary person who never existed. At least in the viewpoint of the Crosby U. English Department, that is," I added with a note of regret in my voice.  
"Mom said you were planning to write your graduate thesis about him," said Jeanette.  
"I was planning to," I admitted. "But certain superiors had other ideas."  
"Aww, I'm so sorry!" my cousin sympathized. "Some people are blind, that's all there is to it. Sherlock Holmes or not, I'm sure any thesis you write would be awesome!"  
I smiled in spite of myself. "Thanks, Jeanette," I said. "Now it's time for you and your absurd notions to get some sleep." I mean it, I added mentally, for I feared the impending assignment of that most dreaded appellation: screaming, squealing fangirl!  
"Whatever," said Jeanette. "'Night, cuz."  
"'Night," I replied, snuggling deeper in my warm covers. In spite of the teasing, Jeanette really was a sweetie, I reflected as I slipped into slumber. My last waking thought was a regret that we had drifted apart of late, as had the entire family. I prayed that this Christmas would give us a chance to reconnect with each other.

"What?"  
"I didn't say anything."  
Confused shuffling noises were coming from downstairs, and there was an heightened excitement in the air that my sensitive nature picked up on immediately. I rubbed my eyes in the dim light, and saw that it was sometime in the very early morning. Vaguely I saw Jeanette crawling out of bed and hunting around for her slippers.  
"What's going on?" I asked.  
"I don't know," she answered, turning to me with a white face. "Shirley, I'm scared."  
"Scared? What--" I began, but was cut off by the entrance of my Aunt Clarice, who flung our door open dramatically.  
"Oh, girls, girls, girls," she cried, running across the room and pulling both of us close to her. "Oh, thank heavens you're alright!"  
"Aunt Clarice, what on earth is going on around here?" I said sharply, feeling her and Jeanette's panic enter my own heart.  
"Oh honey, it's your uncle!"  
"Oakes?"  
"No, Mordred. Oh, it's too horrible! And on this night of all nights!"  
"What? Is he sick?"  
"No, girls," said my aunt, twisting her trembling hands together. "Your Uncle Mordred…is dead!"


	3. Chapter 3

chapter three  
police matters

The sun rose that morning with a cold cheerfulness, cruelly indifferent to the terrible tragedy of the night before. Inside the ancestral home, the police officers had arrived and were busy roping off the office in which my uncle's body had been found. According to my Uncle Oakes, who had been the unfortunate discoverer of the body upon hearing a sharp cry last night and going downstairs to investigate, Mordred had apparently been attacked with some sort of sharp metal weapon, and his face had been mutilated beyond recognition. However, it was unmistakably my uncle's clothing and body, said Uncle Oakes. My uncle refused to let anyone else see the body, and we were left to imagine Mordred's grotesque passing. My mind felt weak and numb, and I let my eyes wander over the three policemen, who had now returned to the family in the living room.  
There were two young policemen in uniform, one blonde, one with brown hair. They moved about the room with stiff, professional movements, talking in low and furtive voices. Their superior officer, a Mr. Waldrop, was in plain clothes, namely a brown leather jacket, shabby corduroy pants, and large, geeky-looking glasses. He was a red-head, complete with sideburns and a straggly goatee. He might have been tall, had he not a sort of humped back that made him appear to be constantly slouching, and he spoke in a marked Southern drawl. He seemed to me a rather unpleasant person, with his languid, sour exp​ression, and when he crossed the room to speak to Jeanette and me, I noticed how dull and spiritless his eyes looked behind his thick glasses.  
"I'll need to ask you ladies a few questions," he said professionally, pulling out a small notebook from his jacket pocket. "You are the nieces of the deceased, are you not?"  
"Yes," I said, "Shirley Ingham."  
"And Jeanette Ingham," murmured my cousin, still staring at the floor. Poor Jeanette, she was still very pale and shaken from the night's shock. I put my arm around her shoulder encouragingly.  
"Now your grandparents had three sons, is that right?" continued the policeman.  
"Yes," I answered. "Oakes, Mordred, and Roger."  
"And Roger is your father?"  
"Yes," I said, my throat going tight. "He and my mother died in a car accident in 2006."  
"I see," he said, making some kind of note in his little book. "You'll forgive the personal questions, Shirley, but is it true that your late uncle was involved in some sort of university scandal a few years back?"  
"Yes, it's true," I said quietly. "We were never given the particulars, but I understand that it was some type of ethics violation. He is a biochemistry professor, and was working on a research experiment with a team of Swiss scientists."  
"And what was the outcome of the scandal?"  
"Nothing. The university withdrew their charges. I don't know why."  
"And when did this happen?"  
"In 2006. Big, red-letter year for the Inghams." I stifled a sudden weird urge to laugh out loud. My uncle's death was just so bizarre, and my brain still hadn't completely processed it yet.  
"I see," said the policeman. "And did either of you hear anything suspicious last night?"  
"No," I answered. Jeanette shook her head.  
"Well, the room you two were in is very high up in the building. Have you any reason to believe that your uncle ever renewed his contact with the Swiss scientists?"  
"We wouldn't know, I'm sorry. Our uncle was not very…uh, communicative."  
"I must ask one more personal question. You will forgive me. Do you strongly regret your uncle's death?"  
I glanced uneasily at Jeanette. That was an awkward question indeed. After a moment I answered, knowing that I spoke for both of us. "We were never very close to our uncle, Officer, even before he became, as you might say, the black sheep of the family. Of course we are upset at his death, and it's a great tragedy, but um…" I tried to think of how to explain it. "Well, like I said, we were not very close to him," I finished lamely. I was not about to tell a complete stranger all the things I had thought and feared, in secret, about my late uncle.  
"I see. Thank you, ladies," he said, and returned to hold conference with his fellow officers. I saw that Jeanette was slipping quietly out of the room, and I followed her up to our guest bedroom.  
She was sitting silently on her bed, with her back to the wall. "Shirley?" she asked upon hearing my footsteps.  
"Yeah."  
There was a silence.  
"It's so…horrible."  
"I know." I had opened my suitcase and taken out Jeanette's Christmas present, a special edition of the board game Clue, which had been a childhood favorite of ours. I thought the gift might cheer her up, but, upon reading the inscription on the back, "Who killed Mr. Boddy?" I thought better of it, and shoved the game back into my suitcase.  
"Do you want to be alone?" I asked.  
"I don't mind."  
"Well, I'll be back." For some reason, my mind just couldn't accept the fact that my uncle had really been murdered last night. The strangest ideas were flitting about in my brain, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. Slowly, I walked downstairs and back into the living room. My relatives had all left the room, and there remained only the three policemen, who were carefully inspecting the doors and windows and were oblivious to my presence.  
"Um, sir?" I asked awkwardly, breaking the silence. The chief officer, Mr. Waldrop, whirled around, his magnifying glass suspended in mid-air. "Yes?" he said curtly.  
"I was wondering if we could…um, talk," I said, realizing how lame that sounded.  
"Shirley, we are in the middle of an investigation," said the policeman.  
"Yes, but I have some information--some conjectures, anyway, which might be helpful," I responded timidly.  
With the manner of a parent yielding to a relentless child, Mr. Waldrop laid down his magnifying glass and turned to me with his arms folded. "You'd better tell me all," he said.  
"The thing is," I began, "I don't believe that my uncle is dead."  
One of the younger policemen at the window made a snorting sound that was probably supposed to be laughter, but Mr. Waldrop ignored him.  
"I know that sounds stupid, Mr. Waldrop--"  
"Please, call me Brandon,"  
"Uh, Brandon," I said. "I know it sounds stupid, but um…do you give any credence to impressions and feelings? Maybe you would call it women's intuition."  
His exp​ression was a bit skeptical and not very encouraging. I took a deep breath and continued.  
"I'll be frank with you, Brandon. I have always been unexplainably disturbed in my uncle's presence. Somehow my mind seemed to sense something sinister and undisclosed in those glinting eyes of his. I have never discussed it with Jeanette, but I believe that she shares my convictions. And now he is reportedly dead, yet the feeling of his presence remains with me very strongly."  
Mr. Waldrop adjusted his glasses. "You have just had a terrible experience, Shirley. It is understandable that your mind should be anxious and disturbed."  
Sympathetic fellow, this, I thought. "I don't expect you to believe what I am saying," I said a bit stiffly. "I'm only saying it because I think it might help you with the investigation."  
"That is good of you," he said.  
I took a deep breath. "The other thing is, I am currently earning my PhD in British literature. And I consider myself something of an expert on, well, detective fiction. And I cannot ignore the fact that this event reminds me very strongly of a certain story of Sherlock Holmes."  
For a moment there was a look in Brandon's face that I could not explain. An instant later it had vanished, and he looked cynical and even a little amused.  
"Thank you for your concern, Shirley, but this matter is anything but fictional," he said.  
"I'm just telling you how I feel!" I exclaimed. _OK, Shirley, way to sound like a complete idiot._ I looked around at the time-beaten paneling of the living room, trying to calm myself down. "There is so much history in this room," I said softly. "You can almost feel the past here, separated only by the flimsy veil of time. If only we could tear that veil, how much this room might tell us!" I looked around to see the two younger policemen staring at me with exp​ressions not unlike those of my former student Chad. "Sorry, that was kinda random," I apologized. Where had that thought come from, anyway? "I'll stop taking up your time," I muttered, and fled from the room, flushed with embarrassment.

I knew how foolish I must have sounded to the policemen. But the truth was, I'd meant every word I said.


	4. Chapter 4

chapter four  
the shortest distance between two points

Several days later, Jeanette and I were playing cards in the living room of our hotel suite in New York City. After Uncle Mordred's inquest, Uncle Oakes had declared that we all needed to get away from the ancestral house, and my grandparents, who had been shaken the most by the tragedy, had meekly agreed. A deep sadness still hung over the family, but I knew that everyone felt better once we had gotten away from the scene of Mordred's death. We had spent a quiet few days relaxing and doing a little shopping and cooking, but I couldn't forget about the suspicions I had regarding the murder. I approached Uncle Oakes one evening, intending to talk to him about it, but his eyes looked so troubled, and his face so white, when I alluded to that fateful occurrence, that I did not want to bring the subject up again.  
"Shirley, your turn," said Jeanette.  
"Oh, sorry," I said, realizing that I had become lost in thought. Suddenly I remembered something: our hotel was very close to Columbia University. The very place where Mordred had been working at the time of the ethics scandal.  
"Jeanette, how would you like to go for a walk?" I asked abruptly, laying down my hand of cards.  
"Sure, I guess," replied Jeanette, looking a little surprised.  
"Into your coat, then," I said, rummaging around for mine. Jeanette's parents had gone out on an errand, and our grandparents were both taking a nap. I scrawled a quick note explaining where Jeanette and I were going, and left it on the kitchen counter for them.  
Outside the air was crisp and blue, and the sights and sounds of New York City were as exhilarating as ever. For the first time since the "murder," I felt almost cheerful.  
"So are we going anywhere in particular on this walk?" Jeanette asked.  
She always seemed to know what I was thinking. "Yes, actually. I thought we might pop into Columbia University and have a look around. Just to see if we find anything of interest."  
"I see," said Jeanette, and we continued in comradely silence until the buildings of the university were within sight. Of course there were no students about during the holiday, but once we located the biology building, the doors were open and several people in white lab coats were walking about. In the front hall of the building there was a professional-looking man sitting behind a desk. I approached him and asked if we might have a look around the building. He looked at us quizzically, but when I showed him my Crosby University identification and explained that I had a professional interest in the building, he relented and let us pass. Once we were out of earshot, I examined one of the guiding maps on the wall and located the laboratory office that my uncle had worked in. I had never seen it myself, but by a fortunate chance I remembered the room number from when it was being discussed at the time of the scandal.  
When we got to the lab, the door was of course locked. I peered through the tiny slit of a window, trying in vain to see into the darkened room. Suddenly I heard a sharp click below me, and looked to see Jeanette standing, half-triumphantly and half-embarrassed, with a bent bobby pin in her hand.  
"Jeanette! I didn't know you could pick locks," I cried triumphantly.  
"Oh, I'm full of hidden talents," she smiled. I could tell she was pleased at my approval.  
"We'd better not open it though," I said. "There's probably an alarm system."  
"Nah," said Jeanette, and with a spunkiness I had not expected, flung the door open and walked straight into the laboratory. Fortunately there was not an alarm, and I couldn't help but be proud of my cousin's fearlessness, even if it could have gotten us into serious trouble. I was certainly seeing a side of Jeanette that I had never seen before.  
"So what did you expect to find in this laboratory?" she asked, looking around.  
"I don't know exactly." At first glance, there certainly appeared nothing unusual about it; just the usual mess of beakers and microscopes and laminated posters of the periodic table, like you would expect to find in any biochemistry lab. A strange thrill went through me as I realized that I was about to do a real piece of detective work. "We're going to inspect this room, from top to bottom, Jeanette," I said. "We'll leave no stone unturned. If we can use our eyes correctly, we might learn something crucially important." I had already explained to Jeanette my doubts about the death of our uncle. She hadn't seemed convinced when I was telling it to her in the hotel, but being on the edge of a concrete action had certainly sparked something in her.  
We proceeded to examine the room minutely, going over every corner and looking under every bit of equipment. I had found several dust-balls, some very disgusting gum, and a few scribbled notes that appeared to be only about scientific matters, when something about the molding in the corner of the room struck me. "Jeanette, come here," I called. She quickly joined me under the laboratory table where I was crouching. "Look at the molding on this wall," I said. "Do you see that funny crack in it? I wonder…" On impulse I pushed gently at the piece of molding, then increased the pressure. There was a slight squeaking sound as of operating machinery, and part of the wall slid back, revealing a hidden corridor!  
Jeanette and I stared at each other in pure amazement. The next minute, we were inside the corridor and heading down a dark flight of stone steps. Damp, chill air floated up to us as we continued downward. "See how old these stones look," I said, feeling one of them. "We must be inside the original foundations of this university."  
The darkness increased as we spiraled further and further down. Jeanette, who was in front, had the good idea to sit on the staircase and scoot our way down, so that we wouldn't bump into any obstructions. In this rather undignified position we reached the bottom of the stairs, and walked, hands outstretched in front of us, until we reached what felt like a very modern metal door in the stone wall. I felt down for the handle and turned it slowly. "It's unlocked, Jeanette," I said. "Should I open it?"  
"Of course," replied my cousin, and I pulled the door open to reveal a tiny room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet. The walls were covered with buttons and switches like the inside of spacecraft, but the room itself was completely empty, except for a large, steel doorway, with no door in it, that led nowhere and was positioned diagonally in the center of the little room. Everything was illuminated by a pale blue light that seemed to come from the ceiling.  
"Well, this isn't creepy at all," I muttered sarcastically. "I think we should get out of here, Jeanette."  
"Wait, Shirley!" she exclaimed, stepping into the room and peering at one of the switchboards. "Look at all these Roman numerals! Do you think they are calculations?"  
My curiosity got the better of me, and I followed Jeanette into the tiny room. "I think they're years," I said, pointing. "Look, they start with I, or 1, and proceed by fives. Our year would be somewhere around here, between the numerals for 2005 and 2010."  
"What is this year here, with the switch pushed up next to it?"  
That piqued my interest. I stared at the Roman numeral. "It's 1895," I said in a hushed tone.  
Apparently that didn't strike my cousin the same way it did me.  
"Look on the far wall, Shirley!" she cried. "It's some kind of huge television screen." She crossed the room to look at the screen, but instead of walking around the doorframe, she took the shortest distance between two points and began to walk straight through it. Just as her foot touched the threshold, sudden panic seized me as my mind put two and two together.  
"Stop, Jeanette, you idiot!" I screamed, but I was too late. As soon as Jeanette stepped into the empty doorway, she vanished completely.  
Nothing in my life, not even my parents' deaths or the murder of my uncle, had ever been so exquisitely horrible. My mind whirled, and a temporary blackness rose before my eyes. I must have screamed, for I heard a horrible anguished cry that seemed to come from some place outside me.  
The next moment, a thin, cold hand was pressed against my mouth, and I heard someone close behind me urging me to be silent. I struggled violently, broke free, and whirled around to see the red-headed policeman who had investigated my uncle's murder, smarting from a ugly red scratch I had implanted on his left hand. What was he doing here?  
"I'm sorry to alarm you, Shirley," he said, readjusting his thick glasses. "But it is greatly to our advantage that no one above should hear you, and thus learn about this secret room."  
"Jeanette," I gasped breathlessly, pointing in horrified awe at the empty doorframe.  
"I assure you that your cousin is in no immediate danger," he said. "In fact, she is probably a great deal safer where she is now, than she was here."  
"What are you talking about?" I exclaimed helplessly. "She just got sucked into some type of inter-dimensional time traveling portal!"  
"Passing through the portal poses no inherent risk to the traveler," said the policeman.  
"And how would you know?"  
"I myself have passed through it."  
"Then you--" My voice trailed off as I stared blankly at the policeman, my mind racing. As I did so, I realized with a start that he was suddenly looking very different than he had yesterday. His humped back had straightened out, showing to him to be a man of taller than average stature. His languid manner had vanished, and behind those geeky glasses his eyes gleamed as brightly as two cold stars. Even his accent had somehow morphed from a Southern drawl into tones that were decidedly British.  
"What on earth is going on around here?" I demanded, not for the first time (nor the last).  
"It's quite elementary, my dear lady," said the policeman with a dry chuckle. "My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

chapter five  
the portal to the past

"Ha ha," I laughed tensely, "that's a funny joke, Brandon. Especially considering your earlier disdain for all things fictional."  
"Joking is the furthest thing from my mind at present," said the tall policeman. "I give you my word of honor that I mean what I say. I am Sherlock Holmes."  
"But that's impossible," I stuttered.  
"You are wrong," he countered. "It is merely improbable. And as I have said many times, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be--"  
"The truth, I know," I interrupted. I stared at the gentleman in the eerie blue light. Sharp features, an intense exp​ression, clear grey eyes. I had the feeling that if I saw him in his proper outfit he would look exactly like the Holmes I'd always pictured. Could it be?  
"Please excuse me if I seem forward," I said, raising a hand to his face and running my fingers lightly over his aquiline features. Well, the man was flesh and blood, at any rate.  
"I'm sorry to be so incredulous, Bran--Mr. Holmes," I said, "But you see, in this century, most people regard the stories about you as fiction only."  
"I have become all too aware of that unfortunate fact," he said with an ironic grin. "But I also know that you do not conform to the majority opinion in that instance, Miss Ingham."  
"How could you know that?" I asked in surprise.  
"It was easy enough to deduce, once I made inquiries into your work at Crosby University," he explained. "You will forgive me, but circumstances have made it necessary for me to learn all I can about you and your unfortunate family. It was equally necessary for me to follow you and your cousin here from your hotel." He must have noticed my troubled exp​ression. "I do apologize, Miss Ingham," he said. "I understand that such behavior appears inherently disturbing to a lady of your century. I believe that 'stalking' is the term in usage? However, I assure you that I bear you no ill will, but am acting in what I believe to be the best interests of both you and your family members."  
"I understand, of course." My mind was positively reeling at the web of fact and fiction, reality and unreality, that was wrapping around me and appearing more and more complex. "But I don't understand how you came to be in this century at all."  
"That is a story in itself, and would be best told once we are safe in Baker Street," said Mr. Holmes.  
"Baker Street? We're going to Baker Street?" Despite my worries about Jeanette, I felt my heart leap in spite of myself. Maybe this was all some sort of crazy dream. But even if it was, I was going to enjoy the dream for all that it was worth.  
"Of course, Miss Ingham," said Mr. Holmes. "I have said already that the danger is greatest for you here, and there is no more work for me to do in this century at the moment." He stepped over to the Roman numeral switchboard and indicated the numeral for 1895. "The device was already set to take me back to my proper era. If we leave at once, we shall be only a few footsteps behind your cousin."  
"Wait," I said, "Jeanette's parents--my aunt and uncle. They'll be so worried."  
"If all goes as planned, we shall return to this century at the very moment we left it," said Mr. Holmes. "They will never have occasion for concern."  
"But--" I began, and then stopped. This was certainly no time to try and argue with Sherlock Holmes about the logical paradoxes inherent in time travel. "Let's go then," I said.  
"I humbly suggest that you take my hand, Miss Ingham. It will not help matters at all if we become separated."  
I slipped my trembling hand into his firm, cold one. "The game's afoot," I said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.  
"Yes," he said with a smile. "It most definitely is." And, hand-in-hand, Sherlock Holmes and I stepped across the threshold of the past.


	6. Chapter 6

chapter six  
the empty house

The actual trip through the portal was far less dramatic than I had expected from watching modern science fiction movies. There was no swirling blackness or sense of movement, but only a momentary blinding flash and a very slight shock, as if from a bit of static electricity. The eerie blue light had disappeared, and I saw not the streets and passers-by of London that I had expected, but only a dank, absolute blackness. Of course, I thought. Like a fool, I had imagined that the portal would span space as well as time, and that we would arrive straight at Baker Street. But we were still under the foundations of Columbia University, as it was in 1895. My heart sank a little as I realized how long it would take us, in this day and age, to get to London. Of course, there was no one else in the world I would rather take a trip with, but I knew how miserable Holmes could become when not in the thick of the action, and the thought of a months-long Atlantic journey, under Victorian sanitation standards and in the company of a moody, depressed, cocaine-using Holmes was enough to daunt even the most devoted of fans. But my thoughts snapped back to the present (or the past, technically) when I heard Jeanette's voice calling in a panicked tone, "Who's there?"  
"It's me, Shirley," I cried reassuringly, wishing there was even a chink of light in the Victorian basement. "And you'll never guess who's with me!" I added, trying to put a cheerful note in my voice.  
"I don't know, Sherlock Holmes?" asked Jeanette a bit sarcastically.  
"Yes, actually," said that detective, striking a match to light a stub of candle. "I know this will sound quite fantastic to you, Miss Jeanette, but I must ask you to believe the little-known fact that I really did, or do, exist, and that I am here to help you. Now let us be out of this damp cellar air, for I have heard it is bad for one's constitution."  
"But what just happened to us?" cried Jeanette. "Where are we?"  
"We are in the cellar of Columbia University in the year 1895. If you'll follow me we shall soon be in Baker Street."  
"So, how long will the journey take, Mr. Holmes?" I asked as we followed the bit of flickering light down a long, dark passageway.  
"I approximate it at 37 seconds," he replied, opening a small door to reveal the strangest-looking device I had ever seen. It was about the size of a small car, but perfectly spherical and covered with some type of metal plating. There was a small hatch near the top and little feet which extended out from the sides to support it, rather like a lunar module. "This is the second time machine in existence," said Sherlock Holmes, gesturing grandly. "The first, of course, we have just encountered. But, unlike that worthy instrument, this one has the power to transcend space as well as time. It is the one technological advantage of my century over yours, ladies. But I fear that, once this business is cleared up, both machines will have to quit time altogether. The benefits of such things are incalculable, of course, but so are the dangers, and inter-dimensional travel is far too powerful a thing to leave lying about for long in any cellar. Climb aboard, please." As he spoke, Holmes had entered the machine nimbly through the hatch and carefully pushed several switches and levers. Without another word Jeanette and I followed him in.  
"Could this possibly get any more bizarre?" I wondered as we were zoomed across the Atlantic by Sherlock Holmes. Like before, there was no sense of motion, only a slight creaking noise. Even during such a short journey, my mind was bursting with a thousand questions, but Holmes had slipped into a characteristic silence, and sat with his eyes slightly closed and his fingers pressed together. Not a word was spoken until we had apparently reached our destination, and Holmes flung the hatch open, announcing triumphantly, "37 seconds on the dot! May I welcome you both to London."  
"Where are we?" I asked, stepping out. "It's still so dark."  
"This place is called Camden House," said Holmes. "It is uninhabited, and directly faces my own lodgings. I thought it would be a useful place to store this machine, for the moment at least."  
I realized that we must be in the famous empty house that Holmes used to keep watch over his own apartments when he returned to London after surviving the Reichenbach falls. I bit my tongue to keep from giving a cry of recognition. It had suddenly occurred to me that Holmes might not have learned about Reichenbach yet.  
"It is but a swift and silent journey to 221B," said Holmes. "And thankfully, it is now midnight in London and we will be less noticable. However--" He looked at Jeanette and me with a furrowed brow, and I remembered that we were still wearing our 21st-century jackets and jeans. How embarrassing! I knew we probably looked scandalous to Mr. Holmes. But before I could say a word, he had whisked three long capes out of a compartment in the time machine. "It is well that I had these with me," he said. "I did not know everything I was getting into when I embarked on this adventure, but I thought a basic disguise of some sort might come in handy. I will get the pair of you more suitable clothing as soon as possible." Quickly the three of us wrapped ourselves in the capes, and crept through the maze of back alleys and hidden passageways until we found ourselves in a silent midnight Baker Street.  
Holmes let himself in as quietly as a cat, and led the two of us up to his sitting room. After calling up a very sleepy-looking young Billy and sending the page boy off with a message, he excused himself to his bedchamber to change.  
Jeanette and I sat in a sort of stunned silence, gazing around the room which I had seen a thousand times in my imagination. It looked rather different from pictures of the modern-day Sherlock Holmes museum in London, but every detail was scrupulously canonical--the Persian slipper full of tobacco, the letters fixed to the mantlepiece with a jack-knife, even the patriotic "VR" shot into the wall. I thought that if this was some sort of elaborate hoax, it was a very well-constructed one. But when Holmes re-emerged five minutes later, pipe in hand, _sans_ red goatee, and wearing not a cape and deerstalker, but, as any decent historian would expect, a very dapper Victorian suit and cravat, all doubt vanished from my mind. It took all my strength not to jump up and start capering about the room with glee, but I did not think Holmes would look very kindly on such behavior. So I merely sat politely, with my hands folded and my ankles crossed decently, as Holmes lit his pipe, settled back lazily in his chair, and commenced the following narrative...


	7. Chapter 7

chapter seven  
out of the falls

I reflected on how strange it was to be sitting at 221B, Baker Street, listening to Holmes enumerate the background of a case to us, and not the other way around.  
"There are two facts that require your first attentions," Holmes began, sending rings of grey smoke up to the ceiling. "The first is that, as you suspected, Miss Ingham, your unfortunate uncle is far from dead. The body found in your grandparent's home, with the conveniently mutilated face, was only a cleverly constructed look-alike. I do not know to which case of mine you alluded back in New York, when you gave me somewhat of a start by mentioning my true name, but I have no doubt I will find out in due time. By the way, Miss Ingham, you will forgive me for my previous gruff treatment of you? I had no wish to be so dismissive of your distress following such a traumatic experience, but it was necessary to keep up my charade."  
"Of course, Mr. Holmes," I said.  
"The two young policemen with me were unaware of my true identity, as, I hope, were the vast majority of people I encountered in your century. They knew me only as Officer Brandon Waldrop, recently transferred from a small-town job in the Southern region of America. I confess that I had to be...well, monetarily persuasive in attaining that post so rapidly. If it had been possible, I might have had a word or two to say regarding the ethics of certain 21st-century government officials. But that is of no matter now. The second important fact is that both of you were also correct in your assessment of your uncle's true character. He is corrupt and dangerous, though I must give him the credit that I believe this whole affair has gone much farther than he originally intended it to. All his troubles began when he teamed up with the Swiss scientists who were involved in the scandal of which you spoke, Miss Ingham. I trust that both of you have heard of Professor Moriarty?"  
I felt myself grow involuntarily colder at the mention of the man who, even in fictional form, had always terrified me. I remembered a certain nightmare I had had once, where the evil professor was climbing, eyes blazing and hair standing on end, back out of Reichenbach falls, and shouting curses at Holmes' retreating figure. I blinked hard to rid myself of the unwanted mental image.  
"Professor Moriarty," said Jeanette, as if trying to remember. "He sounds very familiar, but could you refresh my memory, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Moriarty is viewed by most people as an innocent mathematics professor," Holmes replied. "But I know him to be one of the most depraved men who has ever lived, and the criminal mastermind of London. I think of him as the Napoleon of crime."  
"Oh, yes, Moriarty," Jeanette cried. "Isn't he the one who--"  
I silenced my cousin with a vicious pinch. Although she was far less familiar with Holmesian chronology than I, she understood what I meant immediately.  
Holmes continued.  
"It was my great pleasure to learn while in your century that the professor meets his end during my lifetime," he said. "Naturally, I was tempted to look at a surviving copy of Watson's accounts to see if he had written anything on the topic, but an Englishman in any century does not forget his sense of fair play, and I felt that to look ahead would be cheating. At any rate, it appears that Moriarty's body, mangled as it was by the unknown manner of his death, was somehow got ahold of by a group of scientists in Switzerland. They took his body to North Africa, were it was preserved for over a century by methods similar to those of the ancient Egyptians. Matters changed, however, when your uncle's research team came on the scene. You will forgive my ignorance of genetics, for it does not interest me save where it pertains to the study of criminal behavior. However, it is my understanding that the scientists got the idea that, by somehow tampering with Moriarty's preserved DNA, they could succeed in raising him from the dead."  
Jeanette and I stared at the detective in absolute shock. "And did they succeed, Mr. Holmes?" I asked.  
"Not to my knowledge," he replied. "They were making some progress, but were stopped when certain information leaked out to the public, causing the aforementioned ethics scandal. Of course, no one had any idea what was really going on, but there was only a stir about them using Moriarty's body, since the team had no proof that he had authorized the experimentation while he was still alive. I assure you that in attempting to understand these matters, I have learned more than I ever wished to about the complicated legal procedures of your country and century. But had the press known the real reason that no consent had been obtained, of course, it would have been much harder for them to persuade the university to withdraw their charges. It was partly in fear of this reason being discovered that your uncle chose to fake his own death and go into hiding."  
"But where do you come into all this, Mr. Holmes?" asked Jeanette, ever the practical-minded one.  
"Well, you must know that your uncle is, or will be, a far cleverer man than most people realize. Not only is he a genius at biochemistry, but he has also studied a great deal in the other sciences--geology, astronomy, physics. He holds them all like cards in the palm of his hand, laying down one or the other as they prove convenient. While the genetics experiment was going on with the Swiss team, he was also putting the finishing touches on a secret experiment of his own--one that he planned to use to make contact with Moriarty if the Swiss team failed him or proved treacherous. This experiment was, of course, the time-traveling portal which you so cleverly found beneath his laboratory."  
"What about the other time machine, the spherical one?" I asked.  
"It is the personal invention of Professor Moriarty," Holmes replied. "In one of the really great triumphs of my career, I managed to spirit it away from him before he got a chance to actually use it. He will not be able to make another for some time, for it requires several lesser-known natural elements that are very rare and difficult to obtain. Shortly after the time machine came into my possession--for I did not intend to  
use it myself--one of your uncle's agents entered my century through the portal. He had been sent by your uncle when the ethics scandal stopped the other experiment, to serve as a sort of preliminary scouting mission. However, he made several foolish errors which caused him to meet up with me before meeting Moriarty. From him I learned that my presence was urgently required in the future, and the rest, as they say in your time, is history. Thus you find yourselves rescued from a very turbulent moment, and I find myself in the midst of one of the most interesting cases I have ever encountered. I hope only that I can stop your uncle and his cohorts from whatever evil scheme they intended to use Moriarty for."  
"One question, Mr. Holmes," I said. "Where did my uncle go after faking his death and sneaking out of my grandparents' house?"  
"That is part of the case at hand," Holmes replied. "But I think we have talked long enough about these dark matters. I have dispatched young Billy with a message for Watson, and I believe that is his tread I hear this moment upon the stairs. If I know my friend at all, he and his wife will be only too glad to offer you shelter during your stay in London."


	8. Chapter 8

chapter 8  
flotsam and jetsam

Our stay with the Watson's proved to be a most pleasant experience indeed. Dr. Watson was as kind and good-hearted a man as I had envisioned from the stories, and his wife Mary was a sweet, dear lady who proved to be an excellent hostess. She was especially helpful in giving Jeanette and me tips on how to fit into this century. The Watson's had an adorable 2-year-old son, Charles, called Charlie, who took to  
Jeanette and me immediately. When the doctor was not busy with his medical practice, the little family endeavored to make our stay with them into a holiday. They took us round London and showed us several points of interest, including the opera, the theater, and various sight-seeing locations. We would always return through the gathering fog for a cozy evening by the fire, during which the usually quiet Jeanette surprised me yet again, by sending the Watson's into frequent peals of laughter with humorous stories of our life in the 21st century. Like the long-time student I was, I took careful notes on everything I observed about Victorian London, thus learning more than I ever had from books or historical articles. I knew that the mystery surrounding the false murder of my uncle could not be in more capable hands than those of Sherlock Holmes, and for an entire week our life in London was so peaceful that I was able to almost forget about the mystery entirely. I had but one regret--I had not seen Mr. Holmes once since arriving here, although I knew that Watson visited him often.  
One bright afternoon, Jeanette and Mary had gone out to do a little shopping, though I had stayed behind to finish a book I was reading. The book was now finished, and I was alone in the house, except for the servants, who were bustling round in the kitchen. I leaned back in my chair and rested my feet on the coffee-table, an action I was careful not to perform while in the company of any of my Victorian acquaintances. My thoughts turned to the mystery, another word of which I was yet to hear uttered. It really was rather maddening to be here in Victorian London and not see Mr. Holmes again, or hear of the mystery he was working on.  
Just then, I heard Dr. Watson enter the front door downstairs, and on a sudden impulse I raced down to greet him.  
"Hello, Dr. Watson! How were your rounds?" I asked him.  
"Quite usual, I'm afraid, Miss Ingham," he said with a friendly smile, hanging up his coat and hat. "Routine matters, really."  
"Speaking of routine," I said, twisting my hands together a bit self-consciously, "I was wondering if you had talked to Mr. Holmes recently about his latest case?"  
"Well, you know Holmes," said the doctor. "He loves to drop mysterious hints along the way, but it is not until the case is over that anyone hears a full explanation. But perhaps if you spoke to him yourself, you might be able to wheedle something out of him. The case does greatly concern you, after all. Why not call upon him this very afternoon?"  
"Can I do that?" I blurted out. "I mean, is that proper?"  
"Do not worry, Miss Ingham," said Watson. "Everyone calls upon Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Look, why not fetch your hat and coat and I'll hail you a cab straight away."  
It wasn't long before my cab had arrived in Baker Street, and shivers went down my spine as I looked again upon 221B. I hadn't really had a chance to get a good look at the place before, and I wanted to take in every detail. But I knew it would do me no good to stand in the street and gawk like an idiot, so I hurried to the door where I was admitted by Mrs. Hudson. It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that I heard her say Holmes had gone out for the moment, for I had been attacked by a sudden fit of intense shyness.  
"But he's sure to be back any minute now, Miss," Mrs. Hudson informed me. "I'll just show you up to the sitting room, if you don't mind a short wait."  
Once alone in the sitting room, I had ample opportunity to take a closer look at the famous residence. I knew it was nosy of me, but I couldn't resist peering closely at the messy pile of books and papers and chemical apparatus that lay scattered on Holmes' desk and bookshelves. I was careful not to touch anything, though, for I knew Holmes would be able to tell in a moment if someone had messed with his belongings. But that resolve changed in an instant when I remembered one particular belonging of Holmes'--the photograph of Irene Adler from "The Scandal in Bohemia." I was seized with relentless curiosity about what this reportedly beautiful woman really looked like. Where would Holmes have put the photograph? I wondered. Then I noticed a small storage cabinet just above the mantelpiece. It was a kind of a random guess, but I wondered if the association in Holmes' mind with the part that fire had played in the Bohemian scandal might have caused him to store the photograph there. Carefully I opened the cabinet drawer, and saw in one corner a small, flat black box. I took out the box and opened the lid, and, sure enough, there was a photograph that could only have been of Irene Adler.  
She was even more beautiful than I had imagined, with fair, creamy skin, a full, elegant figure, raven-black hair, a voluptuous smile, and icy violet eyes that held you in their fearless, intelligent gaze even in photograph form. I understood now why Holmes had described her as having "a face that a man might die for." With a sudden vehemence I closed the box and shoved it back into the cabinet. At the same instant that I closed the cabinet door I heard another door open behind me, and someone entered the room with a quick step.  
"Ah, Miss Ingham, how do you like my latest monogram upon the subject of bread crumbs?"  
It was Sherlock Holmes. I breathed a quick sigh a relief; thank goodness he hadn't noticed what I was really looking at! I saw the monogram right before me on the mantelpiece, snatched it up, and turned to Holmes, thumbing through the manuscript as though I really had been perusing it.  
"It's a lovely monogram, Mr. Holmes," I said, hoping he would not undertake to quiz me on it. "I had no idea that bread crumbs could be so…interesting."  
"Why, thank you, my dear lady," replied the detective. He was clad in the uniform of a sailor, and had carried a fishy, salty smell into the room that made me suspect he had been investigating down at the city docks. I was thrilled to encounter Holmes in what could only have been his "Captain Basil" disguise, and I was just going to ask him about it when he spoke first.  
"The use of bread crumbs in the deductive process is quite a recent development, but I believe it will prove to be a very effective one. There are exactly 974 bakeries in London, each with their own unique combination of recipes, ingredients, oven temperatures, etc., and each with their own unique product. Bread crumbs are a fairly common item in the pockets or on the clothing of suspects, and the knowledge of which taverns, restaurants, or households are the routine patrons of which bakeries is very easily obtained. When one adds in the factor of home-made bread, it is possible in some cases to trace the suspect to his very doorstep. You've no idea how good it feels to be back in one's own century, Miss Ingham. Every man has his limits, and chief among mine is that I am strictly a man of my time. The technology and achievements of your age are a fascinating study, but the world in general becomes far too slippery for my taste. Gone are the days that a careful observer could identify his man by the scent of his tobacco or the stitch of his overcoat, and definite information of any kind is so difficult to catch hold of. Take this monogram, for instance. In my century it is invaluable; in yours, it is next to worthless. If I were to find bread-crumbs in the pocket of a 21st century man, I could determine only which major company had manufactured them, and thus would be scarcely better off than I was before. Miss Ingham, I see by your fingertips that you share my taste for music."  
I had no idea what that last sentence had to do with the rest of Holmes' speech, but I confirmed his belief that I, too, played the violin.  
"Excellent!" he cried, snatching his violin case out of a cluttered corner. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to play for me this new piece, here?" He plopped a piece of sheet music onto the desk before me.  
My face flushed with embarrassment. "Mr. Holmes, I fear you will find my musical abilities far inferior to your own."  
"Nonsense, my dear lady. I shall count it an honor to hear you." I smiled at the undeserved compliment, and, after quickly rosining the bow and tuning the strings, I commenced playing the melody.  
I was astonished by the intense beauty and melancholy expressed in the simple tune. Although I was merely sight-reading, my mind was filled with images of falling autumn leaves, of glowing street-lamps on a rainy day, of the wind moaning piteously across an empty moor. By the end of the piece, I felt I was on the verge of tears. I handed Holmes back his violin, saying, "What a beautiful song, Mr. Holmes. I have never heard it played before. Is it Beethoven, perhaps?"  
"You will find the composer's name in the customary right-hand corner," Holmes replied matter-of-factly.  
Duh, I thought, and looked back at the sheet music. I was astonished to see that the name there was S. Holmes! "You are the composer, Mr. Holmes?" I exclaimed.  
"Tut-tut, Miss Ingham," he replied airily. "It was merely the result of an excessive attack of ennui last autumn. The bread-crumb monogram is a work of which I am far prouder." Holmes went on about bread crumbs and their usefulness, putting in a good deal also about various types of mustard stains, for another quarter of an hour. Suddenly, the clock chimed five, and he sprang out of his chair, ending our conversation with a brief "Thank you so much for calling, Miss Ingham." Before I could say another word, he had ushered me quickly down the stairs, hailed a cab for me, directed the driver to Watson's residence, and was heading down the street in the opposite direction, his hands jammed into his pockets, and using a lazy, slightly wobbling step that apparently marked the sea-faring Captain Basil.  
It was not until I was half-way back to the Watson's that I realized I had not learned one bit of information about the mystery.


	9. Chapter 9

chapter 9  
life in london

Over the next few weeks, I had the good fortune to see Holmes much more frequently than I had before. I did not return to Baker Street, for I felt uncomfortable about calling there again, despite Watson's assertions that Holmes would not be offended. But I soon learned there were other places where the great detective was prone to turning up. On several occasions, Dr. Watson took the entire family for a refreshing stroll in the park, and we ran into Holmes who was striding past energetically in a top hat. He always seemed to be going somewhere, but always took time to stop and chat with us for a few moments. Watson's little son Charlie was exceedingly fond of Mr. Holmes, and he would often snatch the little chap off his feet when he wasn't expecting it, and swing him through the air until he shrieked with giggles.  
Another time we were attending the latest museum exhibit, containing several fascinating artifacts brought back from a recent trip to Africa. We ran into Holmes in the hall, who said he was in-between visiting clients and had dropped by to see the exhibit.  
"But the facts are all wrong, Watson," he exclaimed adamantly to his friend. "Their method of dating the artifacts is exceedingly clumsy. Perhaps I might accompany you all for the rest of your visit, and explain the actual facts of the matter."  
On more than one occasion, he actually came to the Watson's residence for dinner. I was surprised at this, but the doctor assured me that Holmes had become far less Bohemian in his treatment of the Watson family since the time of "The Engineer's Thumb," in which Watson had written that Holmes had to be "persuaded" to pay them any visits.  
I couldn't help but notice that Holmes talked to me a good deal during these little visits, but I refused to flatter myself that it had anything to do with me. Doubtless the Watson's often grew tired of his constant digressions into the theory of crime, and he was glad to find anyone else who was a willing listener. I was exceedingly interested in all he said about his detective methods, and I got to hear about numerous fascinating cases that never made it into the canon. I even had the chance to ask him several questions I had always wondered about the canonical stories. Often, though, our conversations delved into music and our likes and dislikes thereof. Sometimes I was even able to draw him into the subjects of philosophy and literature, although I knew he was not usually accustomed to talk about those things. It was very funny, though also sobering, to hear his opinions of what he had observed of 21st-century entertainment. I was becoming aware, as never before, of how low public standards of morality and decency had fallen since the Victorian era.  
As I grew more and more accustomed to Holmes' company, I found myself opening up to him as I had to almost no one else since the death of my parents. I told him what he hadn't already figured out about my work at the college, about my happy memories of growing up in midwestern America, even about some stories I had written, the convoluted plots of which I had trouble getting anyone else to listen to. He in turn amused me greatly with stories of he and Mycroft, when they were growing up in the English countryside. I reflected that we had not yet met Holmes' reclusive brother, and wondered if we would ever see him during our stay here.  
The peace of our first week in London continued on, with only one unpleasant event to mar the holiday spirit. It occurred one evening as Mary, Jeanette, and I were in the sitting room, Charlie playing with some wooden blocks at our feet. Mary was teaching us how to do some embroidery, an occupation that was new to both of us (although Jeanette was an avid knitter) and we were both enjoying it very much. As the clock struck six, Dr. Watson entered the room with a cheerful greeting. Mary ran to greet him with a hug, and Charlie, gabbling baby talk, ran over to his father with a wooden block in hand. As the trio stood before the window, momentarily framed by the last rosy rays of sunlight, something about the way they looked reminded me of an old home video I had watched of my parents and me when I was a toddler. Instantly, I was plunged into vivid memories of the first few months after my parents' death, when I would shut myself up for hours on end in the guest bedroom of Uncle Oakes' house, playing through home videos over and over, choking with unrestrained sobs as I tried to mentally re-create the parents I would never see on earth again.  
"Why, Shirley, dear, whatever is the matter?" cried Mary, seeing that my eyes were dripping with sudden tears.  
"Nothing, Mrs. Watson, nothing," I stuttered, ashamed to be crying like this in front my kind hosts. "Please excuse me." I evaded the concerned gazes of all three of my friends, and fled from the sitting room into the corridor. But I did not make it far before Mary and Jeanette caught up with me. They did not speak a word, but each took one of my hands and waited for me to stop crying.  
"I'm sorry," I said, when I had dried my eyes. "It's just that...Mrs. Watson, I don't know if Mr. Holmes told you about it, but my parents died in a car accident almost three years ago. Well, by my time that is. And when I saw you and the doctor and your little child it just reminded me--" my throat choked up and I couldn't finish the sentence.  
"Don't be sorry, my dear," said Mary very gently. I saw that Jeanette was looking teary-eyed as well. I knew she missed my parents almost as much as I did. Before the disruptive accident, Oakes and Roger Ingham and their families had been very close.  
We both calmed down, though, as Mary whispered a quiet prayer for us. "You might talk to Mr. Holmes about this one day, Shirley," she said when she had finished. "Did you know that he, too, lost both his parents when he was about your age? Their end was very tragic indeed, although he isn't permitted to speak about the particulars, since it involved a secret government mission to which Mr. Holmes' father had been assigned. I know he still misses them both very much. I never had the pleasure of meeting them, but from what he has told Watson and me, they seemed to be very exceptional people indeed."  
"Thank you, Mrs. Watson," I said, managing a smile. "Maybe I will, one day."  
But after that there came a string of days with very bad weather that prevented us from going anywhere or seeing anyone, although Watson stalwartly ventured out to tend to his patients. One stormy, humid evening, little Charlie was becoming very rambunctious due to not having been outside for several days. After he had broken one of Mary's favorite vases and finally been sent to bed, Mary turned to her husband and said, "I daresay, John, that if we don't get out of the house for a bit of fun soon, we shall all go quite mad! I wonder if there is anything of interest going on in town this week?"  
As a matter of fact, it turned out that there was an elegant ball being held downtown. The Watson's had not been planning to attend, but as a special treat for their visitors, Mary persuaded the doctor to take us all. Jeanette and I were thrilled, though I was a little nervous, at the prospect of attending a real Victorian ball. But Mary calmed my nerves by giving the pair of us hasty dancing lessons in the upstairs hall (much to the delight of Charlie, who capered around with us on his chubby little legs) and by lending us two of her nicest gowns for the evening. On the day of the ball, the weather cleared up beautifully, and the four of us set forth in a carriage under a crystal-clear moon.  
"I tried to persuade Holmes to come with us," said Watson as we rumbled along, "But he was far too busy with that case of his."  
"That's a shame," said Mary, and the conversation turned to other matters.  
I looked out the window feeling a sense of disappointment. Well, what did you expect? I asked myself. Sherlock Holmes at a fancy ball? Come on, Shirley.


	10. Chapter 10

chapter 10  
i could have danced all night

Jeanette and I were dazzled by the sumptuous elegance of the ball. Dr. Watson and Mary introduced us to several friendly ladies and gentlemen, but at the beginning of the second dance I found myself somehow without a partner. I sipped a glass of punch from the refreshment table as I looked around the room. Dr. and Mrs. Watson were twirling together in a lively manner near the grand staircase, and Jeanette was waltzing most elegantly with a nice-looking young gentleman who had introduced himself as a Mr. Carroll. I was firmly warning myself against indulging in self-pity when I heard a familiar voice just behind me.  
"Miss Ingham, may I have this dance?"  
I turned around to see none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes, smiling at me in a more congenial manner than I had ever seen from him, and looking most dashing in a spotless black suit. I was suddenly conscious of a dozen flaws in my appearance--the few unruly hairs out of place, the slight wrinkles on the sleeve of my gown, my 21st-century mannerisms that, despite all my efforts to hide them, I so often feared appeared crass and ill-bred to the people of this century. I felt my face grow warm as I replied, "It would be an honor, Mr. Holmes."  
The next moment, Holmes and I were whirling about the ballroom as if we'd been waltzing together all our lives. His dancing was so sure-footed and fluid that even someone with as little experience as I found it easy to follow him.  
"Why, Mr. Holmes, you're a wonderful dancer!" I exclaimed, unable to contain my surprise.  
He gave me a wry grin. "And why should I not be, Miss Ingham?"  
I smiled sheepishly. "I know how much you hate society, Mr. Holmes. It was a simple deduction that you should not care for dancing, it being such a social activity."  
Sherlock Holmes replied with a long and hearty laugh, which, me being used only to his canonical silent chuckles, utterly surprised me. Holmes' entire face changed when he laughed; his eyes exchanged their cold glitter for an infectious twinkle, and his teeth flashed handsomely.  
"I suppose Watson's stories would lead you to believe I am the sort of fellow to shun diversion entirely," he said. "But you have forgotten one of his kindest compliments to me. 'Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will.' The Hound of the Baskervilles, I think was his sensational little title."  
"That is true," I replied. "Dr. Watson often writes about you going to the museum or the concert hall. But he never mentioned dancing."  
"Dear old Watson," said Holmes. "He is the best friend a man could ask for, but I must confess he does not give credit to all my abilities. Do you know, Miss Ingham, I believe his reluctance to write about our dancing experiences is due to the fact that he was not always so skilled at the activity as he is now."  
"Is that so?" I asked, much amused.  
"Truly," Mr. Holmes chuckled. "This must be our little secret, Miss Ingham, but until I myself gave him some proper instruction, he was quite clumsy indeed. I remember a certain New Year's ball we both attended early in our acquaintance. Watson danced the first dance with a very pretty young lady, a Miss Thurston, and he trod on her poor toes to such an extent that she refused to speak to him for the rest of the evening. He was very sorry to have their acquaintance so early broken off, but of course that was before he meet Miss Morstan."  
I had to smile at this picture of an awkward young Watson.  
"So you see, Miss Ingham," Holmes concluded, "Although I am of course a very busy man, my life is not entirely without its little diversions. I thought I should have to miss this one, however, but the case has just taken an unexpected turn, and I find myself, as it were, resting in the eye of the storm. So you see me here, as detached from a case as ever a man could be."  
I thought of asking Holmes what the development was that he had alluded to, but I too felt that this was a brief moment for us to put all other concerns aside. We fell into a silence more poignant than words as the lovely violin music sent us gliding through a sea of elegance. Dancing with Holmes was more wonderful than even I, in my silliest fancies, had ever dared to imagine. But all too soon, the dance had ended, and the couples were dispersing arm-in-arm about the room. I stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure if Holmes would want me to take his arm or not. But in fact he offered me his arm most gallantly, and, indicating several couples who were retreating to the elegant outdoor garden for a breath of fresh air, asked if I would care for a bit of a moonlit stroll.  
"I would love to, Mr. Holmes," I replied, and we slipped out into a world of silvery coolness. There was not a sound but the crunch of our feet on the gravel, the muted music floating out to us from the ballroom, and the brighter, sweeter notes of the occasional nightingale. The garden path led us to a stone bench, near a small fountain which looked like liquid silver in the moonlight. Holmes seated me on the bench and then sat down at a respectful distance from me.  
"What an absolutely perfect evening," I remarked. "In the 21st century we will never have anything so nice."  
"Come, Miss Ingham, you do your century too little credit," said Holmes genially. "I admit I have been the chief among its fault-finders, but its drawbacks are by no means unique in the vast span of history. Every era has its faults, just as it has its accomplishments."  
"Yes, but…" I began, somewhat at a loss to describe what I what trying to say. "Everything in my time is so…bland, so washed-out, like the last stale crumbs left unwanted in the bottom of a cookie jar." That wasn't a very poetic simile, but it would have to do. "Here it is so different," I continued, gesturing skyward. "I mean, look how bright those stars are! Sometimes I feel I could just put my hand up there and touch God!"  
"Yes, but viewing the issue rationally, one comes to the inevitable conclusion that God, being omnipresent, is equally accessible to all mankind, despite their location in time. Time is merely a by-product of human existence; it is far from invincible, as the time machines have given us ample proof."  
"Yes," I agreed, "Perhaps it is only discontentedness that makes me exalt every other century above my own. Yet you have seen my day and age, Mr. Holmes, and you cannot deny that the world is growing steadily worse."  
"The darkest hour is just before dawn, to borrow the clique," said Holmes. "I see no reason that the people of your century have not the same sporting chance as any other. Not while the sun still rises every morning in a blaze of color that can exist for no other reason than the goodness of its Creator. Not while there are such things as friendship and music and laughter. Not while the world is still so full of beauty. For whatever its flaws, Miss Ingham, you cannot convince me that the twenty-first century is entirely devoid of merit." I felt a thrill in every fiber of my being as Holmes gently took my hand in his. "Miss Ingham--" he began. "Miss Ingham!" he shouted suddenly, his keen eyes darting behind me into the shrubbery. "Get under this bench, immediately!"  
"What?" I exclaimed.  
"Obey me at once, woman!" he ordered, running at top speed into the shrubbery as I bewilderedly carried out his instructions. The next moment, Holmes emerged back onto the garden path, locked in combat with a gruff-looking, black-mustached man. Even in that moment of panic I recognized his face immediately from seeing it on the internet--he was one of the Swiss scientists who had worked with my Uncle Mordred.  
With a mixture of fascination and terror I watched as Holmes dealt his opponent several swift blows and then pinned him to the ground, calling for someone to bring him a rope. I thought the danger was over, but there was suddenly a scuffling movement from the trapped man, and he escaped onto the garden path, leaving Holmes writhing upon the gravel and clutching his arm in pain. But the next moment, Holmes was up again, and charging after his foe. Suddenly time seemed to slow to a crawl as I realized that the Swiss scientist was heading in the direction of the building, and framed in the open doorway, blocking his way, stood none other than my cousin Jeanette. I screamed and ran towards them as the scientist drew a pistol from his pocket and fired at Jeanette before Holmes or anyone else could stop him! Jeanette cried out in agony and crumpled to the ground.  
The next few moments were very confused--through dizzy eyes I saw white-faced people crowding round my cousin's prostrate figure, heard her whimpering with pain and saw the blood, ugly and red, appearing on her gown. It was at that moment that I realized just how much I had come to care about my little cousin.  
I don't quite remember what happened after that, but the next thing I knew, I was in a carriage with Holmes, Watson, and Mary, Jeanette unconscious and spread out across our laps. We flew at top speed through the streets of London, Holmes repeatedly urging the driver to go even faster. At one point Watson cried out that we had missed the turn to his house, to which Holmes replied that we were going to Baker Street instead, as it was much closer. But other than that, no one spoke save Mary, who was holding Jeanette's limp hand and whispering fervent prayers.  
In the silence a thousand dark thoughts were crowding into my head. That must have been the "unexpected turn" Holmes had referred to--finding out that an agent of my uncle's would be present at the ball. Probably the entire time he had been waltzing with me, he had been scanning the room for a sight of the man in question. Even what I had mistaken for a romantic moonlight walk was merely another chance for him to draw the net closer around his prey. All his fine talk of protecting Jeanette and me by bringing us to Victorian London now sounded in my ears like a hollow mockery. Sherlock Holmes knew no other love but the love of his detective work, and I had been a fool, a silly, stupid, naïve little fool, to ever suppose otherwise. And now my own cousin was lying at death's doorway, all because of him! Anger at Holmes, myself, and the world in general whirled in my mind with terror over Jeanette's condition. I did not speak a word as Holmes and Watson carried Jeanette into the guest bedroom at Baker Street, and Mary Watson fetched hot water and bandages from a much alarmed Mrs. Hudson.  
I sank into the one of the chairs in the sitting room and stared into the crackling fire for what seemed like an interminable wait. I did not even look up when I heard a door open behind me, and Sherlock Holmes entered the room and seated himself in the chair across from me.  
"Don't worry, Miss Ingham," he said, ignoring my sullen silence. "Watson is as competent a physician as ever existed, and both he and his wife have your cousin in excellent hands."  
"Well, that's certainly a change," I said sharply, turning a pair of blazing eyes upon the detective.  
"Pray explain your meaning, Miss Ingham," he said with a look of distress.  
"I'm sorry, I thought it was elementary," I replied, my voice dripping sarcasm. "You have used my cousin and me, Mr. Holmes. For some reason my uncle is determinedly after us, and you have brought us here as bait to drag his agents here, so that you could catch them more easily on your own turf! Jeanette is lying wounded in that room because of you! And you call yourself a gentleman!"  
Holmes' eyes flashed angrily. "You mistake the situation entirely," he said sternly. "I brought you to London first and foremost to place you under my own protection. The fact that you served a double purpose by drawing your uncle's attention here does not make the first purpose any less legitimate. He would have come after you and your cousin no matter where you were, and I thought I could protect you best in my own city and century. At any rate, if your uncle's men are not drawn here, I will never be able to solve this case, and thus your entire family, as well as countless others, will be in danger for the rest of their mortal lives. Furthermore, the fact that your presence in London was crucial in solving the case does not mean that I have not taken…" his voice faltered briefly--"a very great pleasure in your company."  
"Oh, so now you're exploiting me as a sexual object as well as threatening my physical safety!" I retorted.  
"No! Nothing of the sort!"  
"Then why did you bring me here?"  
"I already explained to you--"  
"You have explained nothing!" I cried out. "Why did you not explain to Jeanette and me about the danger present at the ball?"  
He looked at me in astonishment. "Miss Ingham, do you sincerely believe for one moment that I had any idea your uncle's agent would be anywhere within a 30-mile radius of you or your cousin? I had every reason to believe that he was in Sussex; that was the reason I postponed my case to take an evening off before going there by the earliest train tomorrow morning. I have been deceived, Miss Ingham, very cleverly deceived."  
"Well, now you know how it feels, don't you?" I exclaimed. "You have been lying to me ever since you brought me to London! Why didn't you tell me all that was at stake before bringing me along with you?"  
"Miss Ingham, it is merely the exaggeratedly militant feminism of your generation that causes you to feel taken advantage of by my failure to consult your personal opinion in every decision that I make!"  
"You never consult the opinion of anyone but yourself, Sherlock Holmes!" I shouted, tears starting from my eyes. "That's why the only woman you'll ever know is a flat little photograph laying in your fireplace cabinet!"  
With a start I realized how close Holmes and I had unconsciously stepped towards each other in the heat of our argument. At the same moment I was startled to see in his eyes a look of deep hurt, and I realized that my angry words had touched something vulnerable in him. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, I was seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter, laughing so violently that tears gushed from my eyes and I found myself crying hysterically. The next thing I knew, I had collapsed into a sitting position in the window-seat, and Holmes was sitting next to me, his arm placed tenderly around my shoulders, his other hand gently grasping both of mine, his voice speaking close to my ear. "Miss Ingham, please forgive my idiocy," he was saying. "Miss Ingham, you don't know how it pains me to distress you!"  
The only answer I could manage was another stifled sob.  
"Shh, shh," he said softly. "Don't try to speak." In a sort of daze I realized that he was leading me back to one of the fireside armchairs. He fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief and handed it to me graciously, and he poured some brandy into a glass which he lifted to my lips. I sipped the calming spirits gratefully, trying to stop myself from having a fit of hysterics in front of Sherlock Holmes.  
"Forgive me, Miss Ingham, you are not well," he said, staring into the fire with his brows knitted anxiously.  
"I'm fine, Mr. Holmes," I replied weakly. For I was feeling better, now that I could breathe again.  
"I owe you a very sincere apology," he said, still looking into the fire, and pressing his fingertips tightly on the mantelpiece. "You are right, it was wrong of me to try to justify myself in this matter. By my actions, however well-intentioned, I have put the lives of two very worthy ladies into danger, and I alone am responsible for the injury to your cousin."  
He turned his grey eyes in my direction, and once again I was startled by their exp​ression. Gone was the cold-blooded reasoner, the cynical bachelor of Conan Doyle's canon. In his place stood a deeper and a truer version of that great man, whose incisive, analytical mind stood in direct juxtaposition with a heart that was deep, emotional, and dangerously vulnerable. I remembered the words that Watson was one day to write, "It was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds; to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask…For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."  
"Mr. Holmes--" I began, but was cut short as the sitting room door was flung open and Watson burst into the room. "Good tidings, my friends," he cried, running over to us. "Miss Jeanette has made it past the crucial point. I have removed the bullet which inflicted her; the wound was not deep, and, thank God, was not near enough to her heart to cause any real damage. The shooter must have been panicked in his attempt to escape, or else not shooting to kill. I see no reason that she will not completely recover."  
"Excellent, Watson! Excellent!" cried Holmes, rubbing his thin hands together. I was too overjoyed to speak, but greatly surprised the good doctor by giving him a huge hug.  
"Is there any more that we can do for her tonight, Watson?" asked Holmes.  
"No, my friend," replied the doctor, "She needs only to rest for the moment."  
"Then you and I shall take it turns to catnap in this sitting room, and sit up to keep watch over Miss Jeanette," Holmes directed. "But this has been a very trying evening for us all, and I think it imperative that the ladies should have an unbroken rest."  
"Of course," Watson agreed. "Mary has already arranged to room with Mrs. Hudson for the night, and the two of them have prepared Holmes' usual room for you, Miss Ingham."  
Well, that's not awkward at all, I thought. But I knew my friends were only trying to extent hospitality to me, the guest, but offering me the nicest room for the night. "Thank you so much, Doctor," I said.  
"I saved the bullet for you, Holmes," said Watson, "I knew you would wish to inspect it."  
"Naturally," replied Holmes, who upon Watson's entrance had snapped back into his usual self. I sensed that the two men wished to be alone to discuss the night's events, so I withdrew to my assigned quarters.  
Holmes' room was even more cluttered than the sitting room was, but I could see that Mary and Mrs. Hudson had put a set of fresh linen on the bed and attempted to tidy up the mess a little. An old-fashioned nightgown, probably a spare one of Mrs. Hudson's, was lying on top of the bed. As I changed into it, a profound exhaustion sunk into my mind and body. Without another thought, I climbed into bed and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.


End file.
